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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23625499">The Anomaly - A Universe of Connected Short Stories</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Voulmier/pseuds/Voulmier'>Voulmier</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alien encounter, Anomaly - Freeform, Coma, Drama, Eerie, Existential Horror, First Person, Impact, Scary, Short, Short Stories, Short Story, Spooky, Stranger - Freeform, Voulmier watch, Watch, Window, alien - Freeform, antique shop, attic, hourglass - Freeform, third person</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 18:01:05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>15,897</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23625499</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Voulmier/pseuds/Voulmier</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Seemingly ordinary people try to make some semblance of sense from the strange happenings and anomalies that exist in this fractured universe.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Hourglass - A Short Story</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>You have all the time in the world to live your life.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I’ve been trapped in a single day for the last 114 years. I want so desperately to be free. To be in whatever new world I arrive in. But I fear that the new world I come into will be so drastically different from the one left, I’ll long for the comfort of the Hourglass.</p><p>After all, I have everything I want in here. I ask for something, I receive it. But asking to have my friends and family here doesn’t work. There are no others here. At least not any I’ve seen.</p><p>I’ve lived a longer life than most men. I’ve seen the face of undying. The whispers of immortality. The addiction of fulfillment. And I reject it. For a while it was enjoyable.</p><p>I asked to have a feast for dinner, and to be able to eat as much as I wish, and I receive it. But the Hourglass keeps me here for all eternity. Several years ago, I tried to wish my way out of the Hourglass.</p><p>But the Hourglass sees and hears all. It knows all. It refuses to give me a way out. I tried to trick it. Confuse it. I’ve worded my wishes in such a way that it thinks I’m asking for something entirely different than what I need, and hoping it gives me the true thing.</p><p>The Hourglass makes you appreciate time. A second passes, you think nothing of it. A minute, nothing. An hour, something. A week, you question why it went by so fast. A year, you evaluate your life. A decade, you begin to regret. A lifetime, you repress your regrets and bide your time until the cold, spindly hand of death comes and takes you into the black abyss.</p><p>But inside of the Hourglass, time doesn’t exist. Ironic, in a way, I suppose. A device meant to quantify time not allowing the passage of the very thing it’s a representative of.</p><p>All I wish for anymore is a way out. A door that leads to anywhere. Anywhere but here. In the Hourglass, you begin to more profoundly understand time. You respect, learn that you must not fight against it. Because time waits for no man. If you try to swim against the current, you drown.</p><p>The first thing I’ll do if I ever leave the Hourglass is kill myself. I don’t want to live. Hell, I’ve lived enough of a life for 100 men. Death would be a sweet mercy upon me.</p><p>In the Hourglass, you begin to think about your morality. Was I a good person? Did I do enough good deeds? Was I kind enough? And when you realize that you aren’t, you didn’t, and you weren’t… well. That’s when you wish to kill yourself.</p><p>You can’t die in the Hourglass. Wish for a gun, aim it at yourself, it will jam every time. Wish for a knife to stab yourself, the blade will break.</p><p>I miss the days when I thought about death. The days when I was worried about my own mortality. Now I spend my days wishing for ways to commit suicide.</p><p>Most days, I tell myself I’ll never leave the Hourglass. That I’ll reside here for the rest of eternity. I can’t take it anymore. I want to die. But the Hourglass won’t let me. I ask it to kill me, it tells me it can’t.</p><p>I can’t take it anymore.</p><p>I’m going insane.</p><p>I’m writing a story no human will ever hear. A story no-one will ever believe.</p><p>I’m… I’m a lunatic. A raving madman trapped in the Hourglass, never aging, never dying. Or maybe I have died. And this is my purgatory. My hell.</p><p>Maybe my hell is thinking there’s a way out when there isn’t.</p><p>Maybe my hell is still holding onto hope that I’ll escape the Hourglass one day.</p><p>Maybe my hell is that I want to die, but can’t.</p><p>If anyone ever reads this, please believe me. This is all real. I have been trapped inside of the Hourglass for 114 years.</p><p>And I’ve been insane for the last 78.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Window - A Short Story</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Why won’t it just go away?</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The sun was beginning to go down. As the sky outside darkened, the inside lit up. I sat at my desk, finishing up some projects for work. Papers scattered across the wooden surface, I leaned back in my chair and rubbed my eyes.</p><p>That’s when I heard it. The tapping. A sharp tapping on the window stationed right behind me. I turned my head to look directly at it. No-one was there. I got out of my chair, and walked over to the window. I looked around, but saw no-one.</p><p>It was shut already, so I just locked it. I couldn’t afford any distractions. The projects could very well decide whether or not I kept my job. I had to finish them.</p><p>I sat at my desk once more, jotting down notes and typing on my desktop. Then I hear it again. The tapping. At first I ignore it. Probably just the neighborhood kids having a little fun bothering me. Besides, it was locked. They couldn’t open it if they wanted to.</p><p>But the tapping persisted. Seconds of the irritatingly consistent noise soon turned to minutes. I finally turned around, ready to tell whoever was making the noise how their distraction was beginning to anger me.</p><p>Again, no-one there. I walk over to the window, and unlock it. I push it up, and stick my head out.</p><p>“If anyone’s out here, knock that tapping shit off!” I shouted.</p><p>I closed it and locked the window. Annoyed, I walked to the kitchen to get a glass of water. The ice dropped into the hazy transparency of the glass. I stood there for a few brief moments as the refrigerator dispensed water into the glass.</p><p>I grabbed the glass, and sipped from it as I walked back towards my desk. I walked into the room with my desk, to find my papers scattered across the floor.</p><p>“God damn it,” I thought.</p><p>I set my glass on the desk as I dropped to my knees to gather my papers. As soon as I looked at the papers, the tapping began. I whipped my head up to look at the window. Nothing there.</p><p>I collected my papers, and as I stood up, I set them in a single pile back on the desk. I walked over to the window, and just like I thought it be, it was still shut and locked tight. Suddenly I heard the sound of glass shattering behind me.</p><p>I jumped out of my skin at the noise and spun my head around. The water glass I’d just gotten had been knocked onto the hardwood floor.</p><p>“Oh, damn it!” I yelled as I ran to the kitchen to get some paper towels.</p><p>I rushed back with the towels, ready to clean up the mess. But it was clean. The pile of shattered glass had been picked up and placed neatly on the desk, and the water had been dried.</p><p>“What the hell is going on?” I thought.</p><p>Terrified, I looked around. Then I heard it again. The tapping was back. Just like clockwork. Every time I looked away from the window, it would start. The same window, every time. I can’t be crazy. It happens every one I look away. But when I look back, nothing’s there.</p><p>No human, no tree branch, no rain hitting it. There was no explanation for why it only happened when I looked away. So I decided to look away from it again. And sure enough, the second I turned my back, it picked up.</p><p>I’d had enough. I walked over to and opened the door inside the house that led to the garage. I picked up two bricks lying on the cement floor. I walked back to the window in my work room.</p><p>I need to work. And if launching a brick through my window would allow that, then so be it. I set one of the bricks on the floor, then stood as far back as I could, and covered my eyes as best as I could. I raised my hand with the brick like I was pitching a baseball, and I threw it as hard as I could.</p><p>I closed my eyes the millisecond before I let go of the brick so shield them from incoming glass. And when I stopped watching the window and shut my eyes, I heard the tapping. I heard a single tap on the glass pane before the mahogany brick sailed through it. Glass sprayed everywhere. In, out. Glass covered everything within a two-foot radius.</p><p>I stood in a form of shock. I’d just shattered my window with a brick because of an annoying noise. I didn’t know if I was going insane, or if all of this was justified. I closed my eyes, and I heard it. Nothing. The tapping sound was finally gone. It was finally over, the noise had vanished. Finally. I could live without constant torture.</p><p>I kept my eyes closed for a few more seconds. To bask in the serene silence. It was the first time in almost an hour where I hadn’t heard a constant tapping if I wasn’t looking at the window. But then I felt it. Hot breath on the back of my neck. I was too terrified to open my eyes. I stood there frozen. Then I felt fingers engulf my right shoulder.</p><p>Oh god.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Window (Alternate Version) - A Short Story</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>I told her to wait up.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I’ve been in coma for the last two weeks. In my coma, I can dream. But I only dream one thing. I’m in a bright white room. It’s so white, it hurt my eyes. In front of me, there’s a window. Outside, I can see a beautiful meadow. Rolling green hills. A serene crystal-clear stream. Grass for miles. I can smell it all too. And I hear it all. </p><p>The birds chirping. The stream running. The wind whistling. I want nothing more to be out there, given my current circumstances. But the pane is closed. And every time I close my eyes, I hear a loud tapping on the window. It only stops when I’m looking out the window. If I blink, I hear the tap. If I look away, I hear it. I have to stare at it every second of every day, or I hear it. </p><p>Last week, I stopped watching the window. Now I hear it every second I stop looking at the window. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. </p><p>Every. Single. Second. Without failure. Without hesitancy. Without gentleness. Just a aggressive tap on the window. </p><p>I started counting the taps at about the time I stopped watching it. I’ve counted 3,267 taps, and the number never stops ticking upwards. </p><p>I’m going insane. I can’t listen to it any longer. But in this coma dream, I’m strapped to a chair. Forced to stay in place for all of eternity. Forced to stay in a tiny, bright white room forever. </p><p>But finally, everything around me starts to fade. It flickers. I close my eyes. The tapping is gone. Relief. Finally, it’s over. Everything fades into blackness. My eyes start to open. I’m back in the real world. My coma dream is over. I’ve come out of my coma. </p><p>A doctor walks into the room. Oh my god, he says in shock. He calls for his colleagues to come quickly. What seems like the whole hospital’s staff rush in. </p><p>I ask them why they’re so shocked. And they tell me that I’ve been in my coma for the last 46 years. Oh god. I sat in a coma dream, strapped to a chair, listening to something tapping on a window pane for 46 years, not two weeks. </p><p>I ask them where my wife is. Where my daughter is. They tell me that about 33 years ago, my wife remarried. And that my daughter’s an adult now, with kids. I missed her graduation. Her wedding. Seeing my grandchildren. The doctor overseeing me says that they seldom come to visit. In fact, he says the last time any of them came to see me was 8 years ago. </p><p>I just can’t believe it. I missed my entire life. I missed my daughter’s entire life. And now, I’m completely alone. No-one cares about me anymore. Oh god. </p><p>I’m alone. </p><p>I’m… alone. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Impact - A Short Story</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>From the sky it came; to the ground it will go.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>We were sitting around the campfire, all listening to the crackle of the flames in front of us, smoke pluming up into the chilly night’s air. </p><p>Jenny had leaned against Marcus’ shoulder, wrapped in her blue blanket. Chris had brought his acoustic guitar and was playing a quiet song and singing softly as the fire illuminated everyone. </p><p>Nick, of course, was off using the restroom, the way nature intended: outside. Macy was singing along with Chris to his indie song. The night was quiet. Peaceful. Calm. </p><p>A small squirrel had come into our campsite, looking for food. I gave the little guy a small piece of bread from my sandwich. He scampered off as I chuckled. Cute. </p><p>Then we heard a noise come from the bushes. Something was rustling around in them. There was heavy breathing, too. It was right behind Marcus and Jenny, who nearly shit their pants as they jumped up to move over to my side of the fire. </p><p>Chris and Macy stopped their indie song and were watching the bushes. A figure launched out of the bushes and charged towards us, and the whole group nearly had a mass heart attack. </p><p>But it was only Nick. He laughed hysterically. </p><p>“You should’ve seen your guys’ faces”, he said between wheezes. </p><p>“Fuck! You scared the shit out of us, man! You’re a dick!” Marcus yelled at Nick as he turned to storm off. “Fuck off, Nick. You do this shit every year.” </p><p>“C’mon, Marky! You guys fall for it every year!” Nick laughed. “Oh, come— I’m joking. Look, I’m sorry man…” Nick’s voice trailed off as he followed Marcus into the woods. </p><p>“Well, they’re gonna get axe-murdered.” Chris said. </p><p>I laughed, but Macy nervously responded with, “That’s not funny, dude. We don’t know what’s out there.” </p><p>Chris set his guitar down. He sighed. “Ok, ok, I’m sorry. I’m sure they’ll be fine. Most animals are more scared of humans than we are of them. The nearest city is miles away, so animals around here should see a human, and pardon my pun, but turn tail and run.” </p><p>Jenny scoffed, presumably at Chris’ pun. I finished my sandwich and threw it in the trash bag. Macy moved over next to Jenny. </p><p>“Think I can snag some of that blanket? It’s getting kind of chilly out tonight.” Macy asked. </p><p>Jenny replied with, “Sure, get under.” Macy scooted closer to Jenny, and Jenny wrapped the blanket around the two of them. </p><p>Chris stood up and cracked his back. “Ahh. That feels good. I’m gonna go grab my jacket out of my car.” He announced. </p><p>“Sounds good.” I said as I stuffed my hands in my sweatshirt pockets. </p><p>“God, it’s so beautiful out here at night. You’d never see something like this in the city.” Macy remarked. </p><p>“Yeah. It’s quite the sight. Sky’s full of stars.” I responded. </p><p>Chris got to his Jeep and pulled open the driver-side door. He reached in and grabbed his jacket from the center console. He slammed the door and walked back over to us while slipping on the jacket. He stopped to zip it up, then sat down. </p><p>“Where are Marcus and Nick?” Chris asked. “They should’ve been back by now.” </p><p>“Well, this is the third year in a row that Nick’s done that. I wouldn’t be surprised if Marcus was extremely pissed off. Nick’s probably apologizing.” I said quietly. </p><p>“Nah, that doesn’t sound like something Nick would do. He’s usually a ‘eh, they’ll forget about it’ kind of guy.” Jenny stated. </p><p>“Yeah. Maybe they’re lost.” Macy said. </p><p>“I hope not. I don’t want to have to go looking for them at this hour.” Chris said. </p><p>I looked up to the sky where I saw comets streaking across the open space. The black abyss was illuminated by the white blips dotted throughout it. Then I saw something strange. </p><p>“Uh…” I said, curious. </p><p>“Hmm?” Chris asked. </p><p>“What?” Macy asked. </p><p>“It’s, uh, it’s… probably nothing, but… I-I-I can’t really tell, but I think that a meteor’s entering the atmosphere.” I said, dumbfounded. </p><p>“What? A meteor?” Jenny asked, chuckling. </p><p>“Well, meteors enter earth’s atmosphere all the time. But usually, they break apart and catch fire when they do. They could be the size of Chris, but by the time reaches a height where it could hurt somebody, it’s about the size of my head, or smaller, in lots of cases.” Macy said. </p><p>“Yeah, whiz-kid. Looks huge.” I said jokingly. </p><p>“Yeah? It probably is. It won’t stay that way, unfortunately. It’d be really, really cool to actually get a piece of a meteor.” Macy said, with a goofy grin on her face. </p><p>“Yeah… I… I don’t know if that’s a meteor, guys. It looks massive. Like, bigger than a meteor would be at that height.” I said, confused. </p><p>“It looks like it’s gonna crash into the ground pretty soon. Maybe we can go check it out.” I said. </p><p>“Oh, fuck that, man. I’m not wandering around at 1:00 in the morning, looking for a meteor.” Chris said. </p><p>“No-one said you had to.” Macy said. “I’m absolutely down to go meteor hunting, dude.” </p><p>As it neared the ground, we could see it was huge. It certainly hadn’t broken up when it broke through the atmosphere. It vanished beneath the tree-line, at what seemed like a couple of miles away. </p><p>“Let’s go find it. We can take some of it back with us. C’mon… Think about how great of a centerpiece that would be.” I said. </p><p>Chris scoffed. “Fine. Wait for me.” </p><p>I grabbed the heavy-duty flashlight I’d brought from my house, and took off for the woods. Jenny, Macy and Chris all followed behind me. My light illuminated the dark forest. </p><p>After running for a few minutes, Jenny started getting anxious. </p><p>“I… I don’t like it out here, man.” Jenny said to me. </p><p>I reassured her. “Relax. There’s no-one out here but our group. Park ranger said the place is deserted this time of year. We’re fine.” </p><p>“‘We’re fine’ is also what the main character of a horror movie says before everyone but him is brutally murdered.” Chris joked. </p><p>“Shut up, Chris!” Jenny said worriedly, as she somewhat playfully slapped Chris’ arm. </p><p>We walked a little further before we heard a twig snap. I panned the flashlight across our immediate surroundings. </p><p>“Who’s there?” I asked. </p><p>Marcus stepped out from some shrubs. </p><p>“Oh, shit, man. I thought I’d never see you guys again. I got lost out here.” Marcus said with a sigh of relief. </p><p>“Hey, Marcus! Oh, wait. Wait, where’s… where’s Nick?” Chris asked. </p><p>“Oh, damn it. He’s not back with you guys? He said he was gonna head back to you guys while I cooled off. I thought he’d made it back.” Marcus said worriedly. </p><p>“No, he never got back.” I said. </p><p>“So were you guys out looking for Nick and I or something?” Marcus asked. </p><p>“Not exactly. We saw a meteor crash somewhere around here.” I replied. </p><p>“Oh! Was that what that noise was?” Marcus asked. </p><p>“Probably.” I responded. </p><p>“Yeah, it, uh, it sounded… kinda like grinding metal. Really far away, though.” Marcus said. </p><p>“What?” Macy asked. “That’s weird. Shouldn’t have made much of an identifiable noise, other than a loud crash, maybe ripping some trees down, but not a grinding, metallic noise.” </p><p>“Maybe it, like, hit a cabin or something?” Jenny postulated. </p><p>“Nope. Can’t be. That ranger we talked to this morning said there aren’t any buildings on this land. Other than federal buildings, but those are all concentrated at the front.” Chris said. </p><p>“Weird. But at least we’ve got Marcus back now.” I said. </p><p>Everyone seemed to agree with me. </p><p>After we’d found Marcus, we continued on our way towards the meteor. Our feet were aching from the long walk. </p><p>“Christ. My feet are killing me.” Whined Jenny. </p><p>“Yeah. Mine are too. The ground out here’s a bitch.” Chris agreed. </p><p>“Guys, you’re missing the point here. We have the chance to find an actual meteor. Think of the cool story you’ll get from this.” Macy said enthusiastically. </p><p>We walked for what seemed like about ten more minutes, and then we saw a bright glow through the thick brush and trees. </p><p>“Oh! Ho-ho, shit! There it is!” I yelled as I ran towards it. </p><p>Macy and Marcus ran with me, while Chris and Jenny stumbled towards us. I got to the brushes and kicked my way through. </p><p>“Ow! Fuck!” My arms and face got it up by the shrubs hitting me and the thorns scratching me. </p><p>My ripped through the bushes and stumbled into the clearing, now staring at the bright object. Everyone else got in after me. </p><p>“Help… guys…” A weak and familiar voice spoke. </p><p>It was Nick. A small tree had fallen on his leg. </p><p>“Fuck! Nick, hold on.” I said. “Guys, come help me.” </p><p>Marcus and Chris jogged over to the tree and Nick, and we all lifted. </p><p>“Fuck, this is heavy for such a small tree.” Marcus said with a strained voice. </p><p>Macy and Jenny came over and helped us. Finally, we’d gotten the tree up off of Nick. I let go and pulled him out from underneath it. </p><p>“Thank you… oh, god… is it bad?” Nick asked. </p><p>“I think you probably just broke your leg. You’ll probably be fine.” I said. </p><p>“I gotta grab a piece of the meteor.” Macy said as she ran over to the object. </p><p>She got up to it, and as she put her hand to it, she winced. </p><p>“Ouch! It’s freezing.” She remarked. </p><p>“Are meteors supposed to be like that?” Jenny asked. </p><p>“No. It should be hot. That’s concerning.” I said. </p><p>I looked at Macy’s back for a moment. </p><p>“Macy, get away from that!” I said as I got off my knee and grabbed her shoulders. </p><p>I walked her backwards, away from the object. </p><p>“It feels smooth.” Macy said, with a dumbfounded look on her face. </p><p>“What?” I asked. </p><p>“It’s smooth, like glass.” She said. </p><p>“What the hell? A meteor… shouldn’t be… smooth— wait. Wait, hold on.” I said. </p><p>“What?” Everyone asked, almost simultaneously. </p><p>I waved the thick cloud of smoke that was obscuring the object away, revealing its true nature. </p><p>“Oh my god.” I was stunned. “It’s… it’s a spacecraft.” </p><p>“Ok, very funny… man… This is a joke, right? Tell me this is a joke.” Marcus said. </p><p>I looked back to Macy with a smirk. </p><p>“We’ve found something way cooler than a meteor. We’ve found life.” I said. </p><p>I got my phone out and started recording. Everyone else followed suit. </p><p>“Even if we get this on video, people will still say it’s all faked.” Jenny said. </p><p>“We need the pilot. If there is one, of course.” I said. </p><p>I felt along the craft, searching for a entrance of some kind. Finally, I felt a small crack, and a glass window of sorts. </p><p>I stopped recording, and slipped my phone in my pocket, then grabbed a nearby big rock. I readied myself, then smashed it into the window. A large crack similar to a spider’s web formed. </p><p>I readied myself to do it again, but as I was about to hit it, I heard a large hiss of air. I dropped the rock next to my side. </p><p>The pilot’s seat window was opening. This was it. We were about to be the first humans to make real contact with an extraterrestrial species. </p><p>A blinding light shone out of the craft, forcing us all to cover our eyes. I looked through the crack between my fingers, and saw a hand with four long, thin fingers grip the edge of the newly-opened window-seal. </p><p>Wow. In a few short seconds, we would see a physical, tangible alien creature. I also shortly realized that everyone else was still recording the spectacle. Wow. We would finally have definitive, undeniable proof that extraterrestrial creatures exist. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Downpour - A Short Story</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>It looks like the man from the rain has finally flown the coop.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>[ Chicago, 2009. Tuesday, 7:48 PM. ] </p><p>“Well, today we’re looking at approximately four inches of rain in just the next couple of hours. We’ll be right in the middle of a massive rainstorm for the rest of the week, so make sure you dress for the weather, folks.” The meteorologist on the news said. </p><p>[ The flickering light from the television illuminated the dirty living room of the apartment. ] </p><p>Tommy and I were laying on the floor, watching the TV. He wanted to watch cartoons, but I said we needed to know how much rain there would be. To tell Mom, whenever she got home. </p><p>He didn’t want to agree with me, but he did. He got up and walked to the kitchen. He reached up at the fridge for a box of cereal on top of it. I stood up, went over and helped him. </p><p>[ The kitchen was disgusting. The linoleum was filthy, caked in grime, and was from an era long since gone. Roaches skittered underneath the cupboards, away from the eyes on anyone who might see them. Dishes were stacked in and around the sink, not that it would matter, since the water had been shut off two days ago. ] </p><p>Our Mom had left for a while. Probably to go shoot up with Mark. She always said the drugs made her feel good. She said they made her forget why she hated Tommy and I. </p><p>Elisa helped her younger brother make a bowl of cereal. </p><p>“Thank you.” Tommy told his big sister. </p><p>I figured as soon as I turned eighteen, I’d leave and take Tommy with me. Assuming my Mom was even still alive by then. I looked out the kitchen window. It was being pelted by rain. I could barely see anything out there. </p><p>Tommy had almost gotten out of the kitchen when I heard a knock at the door. Then I quickly walked over to Tommy and grabbed him by the shoulders. </p><p>“Stay here for a moment, buddy.” I whispered to him. </p><p>I slowly walked over to the door and looked through that little window thing, the one where you can see whoever’s at the door? And I saw a strange-looking man. </p><p>He was tall. A little bit taller than normal. He was skinny. Not skinny in a fit kind of way. More like he hadn’t eaten much in years. </p><p>Yes, yeah. He was wearing a gray suit. It seemed a little too big for him, if I remember right. He was carrying an empty birdcage too, which creeped me out. </p><p>He stood there looking at the door, almost like he could see me. I won’t forget, that he was drenched in sweat. It was dripping off of his face. This man was pale and took his gray fedora off for a moment. He was bald underneath. He looked old. Really old. </p><p>He had a huge grin on his face. He looked evil. I didn’t know why, but I knew. He set the birdcage down in the hallway. He turned and walked over to the hallway wall on the opposite side of where our apartment was. He put a hand on the wall, and hunched over for a moment. I could hear him breathing. Or maybe he was wheezing. </p><p>Then he started laughing. It sounded like the laughing was straining his throat. He stopped, then turned to face my door. He leaned his back against the wall and stared at my door for several seconds. </p><p>Then he got off of the wall and walked over to the door. I was glad I always kept our door locked when Mom was gone. Sometimes I locked it when she was home and drugged up. </p><p>The man looked at the door, then his birdcage. His nose started to trickle blood. He slowly began to walk away from the door, but as he left, it kind of sounded like he was quietly singing. </p><p>His voice was really, really raspy, from what little I heard of it. </p><p>I was unsettled after that. I made sure all the doors and windows were locked, and I sat down on the couch. I was worried for my brother. </p><p>About an hour later, I was almost drifting off to sleep. I was almost entirely asleep when I heard a loud banging on the door. </p><p>I shot up. I was wide awake. I was terrified.  I crept over to the door. I almost didn’t want to look. I looked through the little hole in the door. </p><p>It was my mom. Somehow she’d managed to stumble home, despite being strung out. </p><p>What happened next? I let her in. She went over to the couch and collapsed. Just like any other day. I don’t know why that… man… was there. Or what he was doing. It still haunts me. Like I’m going to see him again, someday. </p><p>It was really creepy, sure, but I don’t understand why an interview was necessary. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Attic - A Short Story</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>You never know what your loved ones held onto until you ask.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“It’s hard to believe he’s really gone.” Michael said as he set his foot down on the creaky step up to the attic. </p><p>“Yeah. Seems like just yesterday he was telling us to stop running inside.” Jen said, scratching her arm. </p><p>Michael stuck his neck up and looked around the attic above him. </p><p>“Can’t really— see anything.” Michael said as he slipped his phone out of his pocket and into his palm. </p><p>He turned the flashlight on and shined it around the attic. He saw a string light in the attic and set his phone down, flashlight up, on the wooden planks. He climbed up into the attic. </p><p>Jen watched as her brother disappeared into the darkness of the room above her. He turned around to face Jen. </p><p>“You coming?” He asked, getting down on one knee. </p><p>“Yeah.” She responded. </p><p>She stopped scratching her arm and stepped up onto the ladder. A few rungs later and she was inside the attic with Michael. </p><p>Michael picked up his phone and walked towards the string light. Reaching it, he pulled down on it and the bulb awoke for the first time in years. </p><p>“Place must’ve not seen much use when dad got older.” Michael said as he shut his flashlight off and slipped his phone back into his pocket. </p><p>He heard a sniffle behind him. He glanced back to Jen, who was wiping tears from underneath her eyes. He turned his body and stepped close to her. </p><p>He stretched out his hand and rubbed Jen’s arm. </p><p>“It’s okay. Let’s just… look around for a minute, then we’ll go back down, okay?” Michael said, dark bags under his eyes. </p><p>Jen nodded in response, too choked up to speak without crying more. </p><p>Michael took his arm away and turned back to the cluttered attic. He walked forward a few paces before stopping at a small wooden crate. He got down on a knee to investigate the crate. </p><p>On top of it were several file folders and piles of paper. There was a phone number that was repeated across quite a few of them. The phrase, ‘the frequency’, appeared several times across several papers. He stuffed a paper with the number into his pocket and slid the rest off of the crate. </p><p>He popped the lid off and opened it up. Inside were mostly small trinkets and older, antique-looking items. Michael pulled a strange-looking pocket watch from the crate. He held it in his palm, rotating it a slightly. </p><p>“What’s that?” Jen asked through a sniffle. </p><p>“A pocket watch. Says… Voulmier on it.” Michael replied. </p><p>“That’s… why does that sound familiar?” She asked. </p><p>“Here. Take a look at it, you might remember.” Michael said as he handed Jen the watch. </p><p>She took it from him and stared at it for a few seconds while Michael continued to rummage around in the crate. </p><p>“Oh, wait… I think… I remember now, this is the pocket watch dad got appraised when I was a kid.” Jen said aloud. </p><p>Michael pivoted slightly, still remaining crouched, and looked up to Jen. </p><p>“I don’t remember that.” </p><p>“When I was really young, I was sick one day and stayed home from school. Mom was at work and dad was here taking care of me. Said he’d been meaning to get it appraised for a while. He figured the fresh San Francisco air could help my cold.” Jen responded. </p><p>Michael chuckled slightly. </p><p>“We went to this weird antique shop. The guy told him it was the rarest pocket watch he’d ever seen, that it was an attractant or something for… strange things. God. Feels like such a long time ago.” She continued. </p><p>Michael’s eyes fell to the floor. The two were silent for a while. </p><p>“Too bad nothing strange ever really happened to us.” Michael said as his voice penetrated the quiet. </p><p>“Yeah.” Jen said as her fingers rotated the pocket watch. </p><p>Michael continued to look through boxes and small containers that littered the attic. He ripped open the tops of taped-up cardboard boxes that sat idle, collecting dust. </p><p>“I think I’m going to go back downstairs.” Jen said aloud. </p><p>“Okay. I’ll be down in a second.” Michael replied as he patted the top of a cardboard box. </p><p>Jen slipped the pocket watch into her pocket and descended down the ladder. Michael rested on a single knee for a few moments, absorbed by the fresh silence around him. </p><p>As he stood up, he wiped off a thin layer of dust he’d collected on his hands, his gaze wandering up to blinds that hung on the wall several feet in front of him. </p><p>He stood there for a moment. He extended his foot, stepping over several containers scattered messily across the floor. His hand reached for the drawstrings, and by his request, the blinds quickly ascended, revealing a distant view of the Golden Gate Bridge. </p><p>Michael stared out for a few seconds. </p><p>“See you later, dad.” </p><p>He turned away and stepped over the clutter, moving towards the ladder that led downstairs. As his feet touched the navy blue carpet below the attic, he folded up the ladder and pushed the entrance up into the ceiling, closing up the only route to the attic. </p><p>He walked down the stairs and made his way into the living room. There were several people that donned black that were milling around, talking to each other. </p><p>Michael made his way through the room, intent on getting outside. He reached the front door and opened it, his fingers wrapping around the silver doorknob. </p><p>Twisting it, Michael pushed it open and stepped out into the crisp midday air. He gently shut the door behind him, taking several seconds to stare off to the street in front of his house. </p><p>Standing with his hands at his sides for a few seconds, Michael reached into his pocket, and proceeded to pull out the piece of paper with the hastily-written phone number on it. </p><p>He looked at it for a few seconds. He reached down for his other pocket and pulled his phone out. He glanced between the paper and his phone, dialing the number. He reached the end of the number and stopped for a moment. He stared at the call button. </p><p>He tapped it and held the phone to his ear, looking out into the deep black sky of San Francisco. </p><p>“Hey there, welcome to the Frequency, you’re on the air. What have you been up to tonight caller?” The Voice asked. </p><p>“Is this, the, the Frequency?” Michael responded. </p><p>“It most certainly is. Strangest radio station around. I take it you’re a first-time caller?” The Voice asked. </p><p>“Yes. I… I am. But I think maybe my dad wasn’t.” Michael said, speaking up. </p><p>“Your father? Who might that be?” The Voice questioned. </p><p>“He passed away a few days ago. Funeral ended a few hours ago.” Michael said somberly, looking at the ground, before scratching his face. </p><p>“Well, that’s certainly sad. Sorry for your loss.” The Voice replied. </p><p>“Yeah. It’s been tough. My sister and I were up in his attic, and we were looking through some of his old stuff. I found what I now know is your… station’s number written on a bunch of papers up there.” Michael said, looking out into the darkness of the cold night. </p><p>“Hm. Well, what was your father’s name?” The Voice asked. </p><p>Michael’s eyes opened wider, and the cold air seeped into his eyelids. “His name’s— was George.” </p><p>“George? George… Hold on a second.” The Voice said through Michael’s phone speaker. </p><p>Michael hadn’t had much alone time to confront the newfound absence of his father yet. He felt a tightening sensation roll through his body. A physical representation of him coming to terms with it, he internally proposed. A few minutes passed as Michael stood in the oddly comforting silence. </p><p>“You still there?” The Voice asked through the phone. </p><p>“Yeah.” Michael replied. </p><p>“I just looked through my record of callers, and there was a George that called in a few months ago.” The Voice said. </p><p>“Ok. Great. Thank you.” Michael responded. </p><p>“You’re welcome… and, uh, I’m…” The Voice sighed briefly. “I’m sorry about your dad.” </p><p>“Thanks.” Michael said quietly as he hung up. </p><p>Michael stood idle, staring into the dark San Francisco night sky. He could hear the faint voices of the people inside his mom’s house talking. His attention jumped to the door behind him as he heard it open. He turned to see his sister stepping outside. </p><p>She closed the door behind her. </p><p>She rubbed her arm, her black coat shifting up and down as her hand moved over it. </p><p>“How’s it going out here?” Jen asked, feigning a gentle smile. </p><p>“About as good as you’d think.” Michael replied. </p><p>“Who called?” She asked. </p><p>“Oh, I, uh… I called the number I found up in the attic. Kinda surprised it connected me with who the paper said would have it.” Michael answered. </p><p>“Who was it?” Jen asked. </p><p>“It was a radio station.” Michael said, followed by a long exhale. “It’s called The Frequency.” </p><p>“The Frequency?” Jen repeated quietly. </p><p>“I’m not sure why I called. Guy on the other end told me dad had called a few months back. Maybe I just felt… felt like I could be closer to dad again… in some way.” Michael said, shifting his focus back to the dark sky. </p><p>He heard Jen sniffle, and was drawn back to reality. She partially covered her face with her hand, obscuring it from Michael’s view. She didn’t want him to see her crying. </p><p>Michael stepped closer to her, rubbing her shoulder, exhaling hot breath quietly into the chilled air around them. </p><p>Jen couldn’t hold it together anymore and broke down. Tears streamed down her face. Jen moved to hug Michael, and the siblings wrapped their arms around each other. </p><p>“It’s alright Jen. It’s gonna be alright.” Michael said, trying to comfort his sister. </p><p>Several minutes passed of them holding each other in the quiet, thinking about the past few days they’d had. Michael gently pulled himself away from Jen, holding a hand on her shoulder for a moment. Jen wiped the tears from her eyes and cheeks. </p><p>“Do you still have that pocket watch?” Michael asked. </p><p>Jen nodded and slipped her hand into her jacket pocket. She pulled out the watch and handed it to Michael. He held it in his fingers. He looked at its face. The hands were moving. The watch was functional. </p><p>“Was this working earlier?” Michael asked. </p><p>“I-I don’t… know.” Jen responded. </p><p>Michael stared at the reinvigorated timepiece. </p><p>“Why don’t we head back inside?” Michael suggested, looking back up to Jen. </p><p>“Yeah.” Jen said, in a choked up tone. </p><p>Jen twisted open the door, and the two stepped back inside out of the cold San Francisco night. Michael glanced at the pocket watch once more. He focused on its quiet ticking, drowning out the other noises in the room. There was a strange energy attached to this watch. </p><p>He didn’t know how, or what it was, but he could feel something. It felt oddly powerful in his hand. Shaking off his thoughts, he slipped it in his pocket. He walked over to the couch to be with the rest of his family. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Antique - A Short Story</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Mind the dust, it gives it character.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The rain outside was hard. It fell from the dark evening’s sky and crashed against the pavement with loud splashes. </p><p>A man clad in a black over-shirt and navy blue slacks moved down the sidewalk, maneuvering between the handfuls of people heading home from their 9-to-5’s. </p><p>As he stepped through the night, holding his matching navy blue suit jacket above him to shield himself, a bright glimmer caught his eye around the corner. He walked to the curve and turned, to see a bright yellow sign glowing deep into the darkness beyond. </p><p>Elmer Street Antiques, it said. The left side of the sign flickered dimly in comparison to the rest of it. The man looked curiously at the store. The window was dark, and looked abandoned, though the liveliness of the sign suggested otherwise. </p><p>In a hurry to get home to his wife and his children, he quickly walked to the door and tried the knob. It turned all the way and the mahogany entrance pushed inward. </p><p>Only slightly surprised by this revelation, he shook it off and walked inside. The door shut behind him, slamming into the frame with a oddly hollow collision. </p><p>He shuddered as he tried to shake the cold grip the rain had on him. He brought his suit jacket down from above his head and folded it over his arm. He looked around the dark antique shop. </p><p>“Hello?” He asked, the harsh appearance of his voice crashing against the complete silence. </p><p>He looked around the shop as he approached the counter. It was old, the cherry had faded from the wood long ago and it was covered in a heavy sheet of dust. On the far right side, in front of the decades-old cash register, sat a brand new service bell, and next to it, a small, folded paper sign. </p><p>Please ring for assistance, the paper commanded. The man looked around worriedly, before cautiously tapping the bell down to ring it. He stood idly for a few moments before raising his hand to ring again, when suddenly a voice slithered out of the pitch-black shadows on the man’s left. </p><p>A jolt of terror electrified the man as he stood in the dimly lit shop, surrounded on all sides by darkness. </p><p>“Uh, excuse me, I’m looking for some assistance finding something?” The man asked as he extended his head to try and make a figure in the darkness. </p><p>“Of course.” The voice said, wearing a tone as old as time, downtrodden by decades of usage. “What is it you desire?” It continued. </p><p>“I’m, uh…” The man cleared his throat. “I’m looking for a birthday present. For my father.” </p><p>“Ah. A gift. You’re fortunate. We have plenty to choose from here.” The voice fluctuated as the person it belonged to stepped towards the edge of the darkness. </p><p>A old man in an ancient gray suit walked forward, the single light above him shined down onto the dusty old clothes he wore, and the tiles below him. </p><p>“Let’s see if we can’t find you a gift.” The old man said in a quiet voice as he walked towards the wooden checkout desk the man in the suit stood in front of. </p><p>Cautiously, the man spoke up. </p><p>“What do you have available?” He asked. </p><p>“What is it you’re searching for?” The old man queried. </p><p>“My father likes to collect and repair old timepieces. Maybe you’d have one, an antique clock or maybe a pocket watch?” The younger man questioned. </p><p>The man behind the counter pressed his lips together, thinking for a few seconds. </p><p>“Actually, I… I think he mentioned once there was a certain watch he’d been looking for, for several years. A… a Voulmier, I think was the brand?” The man said. </p><p>“Voulmier?” The man replied, a hint of curiosity whetting his voice. </p><p>“Might’ve been Valmier, or something similar, but I’m fairly certain it was the Voulmier. He talked about it quite frequently.” </p><p>The old man audibly exhaled through his dry lips. He was apparently nervous. The man raised his eyebrows, confused. </p><p>“Is something wrong?” He asked. </p><p>“I just… haven’t heard that… name for a very long time.” The old man replied. </p><p>“Is it an uncommon brand?” The man queried, wiping rain off of the sleeve of his navy blue suit jacket. </p><p>“Yes, quite rare, in fact.” The old man said, his voice quieting a bit, before he turned to look at the younger man. </p><p>“Oh.” A tone of light disappointment washed over the younger man. </p><p>He was visibly disappointed to hear the brand was a rare one. </p><p>“Tell me, how much do you care for your father? Is the gift of a timepiece direly important to you? To him?” The old man asked, clasping his shaking hands together. </p><p>“Quite. When I was a child, he took me into his workshop. Showed me all the timepieces he’d collected and repaired. From all different eras, the 1800s to the thirties.” The younger man said, resting his hands on the counter. </p><p>“He’s much older now, and it’s more difficult for him to move, to do the things he loved. I wanted to get him a special gift that would mean something to him. I thought perhaps a nice timepiece would be a good gift.” He continued. </p><p>The old man sighed gently. “I do have one Voulmier brand wristwatch.” </p><p>The younger man looked a bit more interested and aware. “You do?” </p><p>“Indeed, I do. See, I’ve had it for a long time now, and I’ve been holding onto it for several decades. I don’t keep it on display, for several reasons. I keep it locked away.” </p><p>“Why?” The younger man questioned. </p><p>“It’s one of the last rarest and sought-after timepieces ever crafted. The company that manufactured the watches, Vohlos Timepieces, suffered a catastrophic factory fire in the early 1920s. They were in the middle of producing their next line of timepieces, the Voulmier wristwatch.” The old man explained, now turning to face the younger man again. </p><p>“After the fire, and a dwindling market for luxury timepieces, they couldn’t afford to survive, and closed down. All the surviving Voulmier watches were scrapped off pay off factory workers and investors.” He continued. </p><p>“Only two Voulmier wristwatches are known to have avoided being scrapped. I own one, and the other is presumed lost by all antique experts and timepieces enthusiasts.” </p><p>“So if it’s such a rare timepiece, why would you not sell it to someone before now?” The younger man asked. </p><p>“I’ve held onto the timepiece for decades. I supposed I grew attached to it. But I’m older now, and I presume I don’t have much more time in this world. I’ve been thinking this over for many weeks now, and I think that, after hearing the story of you and your father, I’ll sell it to you. I’d rather a family inherit such a rare and unique piece of timepiece history, rather than the city dumping it into a scrapyard when I’m no longer here to possess it.” The older man said, now standing back at the counter. </p><p>“Well, I don’t know if I can pay for its worth. I don’t have much to expend on a single item.” The younger man said. </p><p>“Don’t worry about paying a premium for the watch. I can sell for a reasonable price. How does one hundred and fifty dollars sound?” The older man queried. </p><p>“That’s reasonable enough. I’ll take it.” The younger man said. </p><p>“Excellent.” The older man walked away into the darkness, leaving the younger man alone for ten minutes. </p><p>The older man returned, now holding a small black box in his hands. He stepped underneath the overhead light hanging above them and set the box on the counter. He put his fingers on the edge of the lid and removed it. </p><p>The air around the two men became frigid, dropping nearly twenty degrees. The younger man pulled his checkbook from the inside of his jacket. </p><p>“Be careful with this timepiece. In many ways, it represents the curse of desire, the lust of want and the burden of vanity. Treat it with respect and love. Do not destroy it, and don’t mistreat it. It’s a strange item, and it has a strange aura. I don’t quite understand it, but if you treat it well, and take good care of it, it will stay quiet. If the watch is ever given away, or inherited, ensure you inform the recipient of these words.” The older man explained. </p><p>The younger man looked a bit hesitant, but curious as he wrote out his check. “I understand. I’ll treat it well.” </p><p>“Then this timepiece now belongs to you. I hope your father finds joy in such a rare wristwatch. Inform him of its history, I’m sure a man such as him would appreciate the tale.” The older man said. </p><p>“I will.” The younger man said, before putting the box’s lid back on, and picking it up. </p><p>The man left the old antique store, and stepped back out into the dark and the rain. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Nightshift - A Short Story</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>When night falls, you’ll meet strange and interesting people.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The fluorescent lights hummed quietly above Marco. He sat in his office chair at the checkout counter, next to the entrance of the convenience store. Marco leaned against the counter with his arms folded over it. </p><p>He glanced to his phone, which was lying face down next to his arms. His hand moved over and flipped it, waking the screen and showing the time. 12:48 AM. </p><p>He stared at his wallpaper for a moment before the screen went dark. Marco rubbed his eyes. He was tired from working the night shift the last few nights, but he just needed to stay awake a few more hours. At 5:00 AM, Cassandra would be on her way for the morning shift. </p><p>Indistinct, lyric-less Muzak played over the convenience store speakers quietly as Marco looked around. A few minutes passed before Marco decided to stand up and stretch his legs. He wiped a hand off on the left leg of his jeans and got out of his chair. </p><p>He grabbed his phone off the counter and slid it into his pocket. He walked around the counter and out into the well-lit, decently large store. Just as he stepped out to the customer’s side of the store, the Muzak changed over to a new song, still only instruments. </p><p>He looked around, to see if anyone was outside. Seeing that he was alone, he walked towards the refrigerators at the back of the store. He examined them, then took a soda from one of them. </p><p>Holding the cold can in his hand, he walked around a little more to check on the various aisles. Management wasn’t happy if he didn’t check the store at least once every half hour. Marco watched the parking lot from in between two aisles; still no-one. </p><p>He walked back to the counter and sat down. He scanned his soda, then popped the cash register open. </p><p>“That’ll be $1.59, sir.” Marco jokingly said aloud. “Hmm, but of course, my good man.” Marco continued as he pulled his dark blue wallet from his jeans. </p><p>He took out two dollars and placed it in the cash register. He took 41 cents from the register and stuffed it in his pocket. He’d done this a few times before working the night shift. Management never got on him so long as he always paid the exact amount. </p><p>Marco leaned back in his chair at the front counter. He looked around, his eyes glancing to the large glass windows, half illuminated by fluorescence, half by pitch black darkness. He interlocked his fingers and rested them behind his head as he leaned further back in the chair, kicking his feet up onto a small table behind the counter. </p><p>Marco sat there in the cold convenience store, watching the outside as the stars above the concrete prison stood motionless next to the highway. A memory hit Marco, like a struck match flicked from the pitch black. A man had been found decapitated on that highway. Not anywhere near the store. Quite a ways away, actually, but regardless, still on the same highway. </p><p>This thought plagued his mind as Marco became suddenly less comfortable in his relaxed situation. He moved his hands to sit folded in his lap. He was painfully awake now. </p><p>Marco looked at the counter to his sketches he’d done earlier, around seven or so. His mind blinked a thought into existence. He leaned up from his seat and put his hands on the counter, palms down. The sensation of his warm fingers pushing against the chilled glass that bound the lottery tickets like a lamp binds a genie felt strange. </p><p>He glanced around the counter, quickly scanning both ends of it, to where the archway that held smaller items, like cigarettes and gum, stopped the counter from going any further. </p><p>He grabbed a navy blue pen that sat right where the counter and archway met and pulled a small notebook filled with lined paper to him. Marco started sketching more small drawings to pass the time. After a while of sketching, he set his pen down on the drawing he’d done of the convenience store’s interior and pulled out his phone. </p><p>1:40 AM, it read. Ten minutes passed before Marco snapped his wandering mind back to reality. He looked out the window from where he sat. There were headlights out there in the pitch black darkness. </p><p>The headlights came from around the convenience store and slowly drove up to stop around twenty feet from the store’s entrance. It sat there for a few moments. Marco’s mind couldn’t do much other than repeat a single possible outcome for this situation over and over. </p><p>The headlights outside blinked off instantly, their bright orange glow still burned into the night as it too faded into blackness. Marco blinked a few times. As the car doors opened, the interior light came on, revealing two figures dressed in dark clothing stepping out into the cloak of the deep night. </p><p>He felt something heavy rise in his throat. His eye twitched a few times. </p><p>For as deep as the black outside was, he could still see the two figures quickly striding towards the store. The fluorescent lighting beaming into the dark revealed the figures as they stepped up to the doors and opened them. </p><p>The two men, maybe late into their twenties, stepped inside and nodded to Marco seemingly to offer him relief, almost as if they were aware of his stress and discomfort. They walked s through the store, picking many items from shelves, rotating displays and the refrigerators. </p><p>As they walked up to the counter, a vibrant green shirt stating “They’re Out There” appeared from beneath one of the men’s black zip-up hoodie. They dumped all of their items onto the counter. </p><p>Bags of chips, candy, soda, energy drinks, sunglasses, phone charging cords, tourist magnets, a California-themed snow globe prominently featuring the Golden Gate Bridge, a variety of touristy stickers, and a copy of ‘Night at the Museum’ starring Ben Stiller on DVD. </p><p>Marco took each item and scanned them, glancing at the two men every once in a while. </p><p>“You in town for the alien festival?” Marco asked as he reached underneath the counter to pull a plastic bag out. </p><p>“Yeah, we drove in a couple days ago from Oregon. Hear this festival down here’s supposed to be massive.” The man wearing the ‘they’re out there’ shirt said. </p><p>“Yeah, they do a week-long festival. There’s music and stuff I guess.” Marco said while bagging their items. </p><p>“I’m gonna go get the car started.” The other man said to his friend. </p><p>“Sounds good.” The man with the shirt answered. “You never been to the festival?” He asked Marco. </p><p>“Nope. Never been much into aliens.” Marco said, nearly leaning into the word ‘aliens’ and raising both of his eyebrows.  </p><p>“Not a believer?” The man asked. </p><p>“Not exactly, I guess. Probably just haven’t…” Marco rubbed his hands on his jeans. “…Seen the right proof, I guess. That’ll be $34.95, by the way.” </p><p>“Oh, right.” The man said as he brought out his wallet. “Well, man, keep an open mind. You never know when something might come along, and…” The man quieted down for a second as he counted the money out. “…Change your whole world view.” </p><p>“I guess you’re probably right.” Marco replied as he took the money from the man. </p><p>Marco handed the man a nickel as he picked his bag up. The car lights outside came to life. Marco’s eyes shot to the window as the man pocketed the coin. </p><p>“You have a nice night, man. Oh, and by the way, if you want to see some true proof of aliens, look up ‘Extraterrestrial and it’s ship filmed in national park’. A video that will sway even the most immovable of beliefs.” The man said as he walked towards the door. </p><p>“I will. And enjoy the festival.” Marco said, with a slightly raised voice to catch the man as he left. </p><p>Marco sighed as he grabbed his phone. Almost 2:00. He rubbed his eyes. He thought about not looking up that video for a moment. The guy was probably screwing with him, or it was a blurry video of some campers and a tent in the park. </p><p>Deciding to appease his curiosity, he unlocked his phone and typed the exact wording into Google. A variety of articles and links to YouTube videos came up instantly. “Shocking Video Confirms Aliens, Government Denies Authenticity”, “Alien Filmed in Forest Proves Skeptics Wrong to Deny Existence of Extraterrestrial Life”, “Alien and It’s Ship Filmed in National Park Forest (Original Video)” and more. </p><p>Marco was a bit surprised. He didn’t think the search would actually turn anything very compelling up. He set his phone down for a second. He tapped on a link to the supposed original video. It was a cell phone video on a tall, slender alien creature exiting an egg-like spaceship. </p><p>Looked real enough, but can you truly prove this was a real extraterrestrial without conducting some kind of tests? After all, it could be just an elaborate hoax. His eyes jumped to the time at the top of the screen. 2:05. </p><p>The time almost seemed to be passing slower now. There was still around three hours before Cassandra showed up for the day shift. Marco glanced outside. </p><p>He looked outside in time to see another vehicle pulling up to the parking lot of the convenience store. It was a sleek black car. Almost difficult to see under the veil of night. </p><p>The passenger door popped open, awakening the dome light inside the car. Two men sat inside. The passenger checked his watch as he said something to the driver. The driver then popped his door open, and they both got out of the car. </p><p>As they approached the store’s entrance, Marco could see they were dressed in well-kept black suits. They both wore ties, but the passenger’s hung a bit lower; Loosened, it seemed. </p><p>The passenger opened the door and held it long enough as he stepped in for the driver to catch it. </p><p>“Evening. Getting back from somewhere fancy?” Marco asked, folding his hands on his lap. </p><p>“Not particularly.” The driver said as he brushed his scruffy brown hair back up off of his forehead. </p><p>“Hmm.” Marco said quietly. </p><p>The two men walked through the store. The passenger walked to the refrigerators. He opened one of them and grabbed a can of soda, then a large bottle of water. </p><p>The driver walked over to the candy aisle. He picked up a bag of sour gummy worms and a chocolate bar. As he walked towards the counter, he stopped at a rotating display of chips, and plucked a bag of barbecue chips from it. </p><p>The passenger met the driver at the counter and placed the drinks alongside the driver’s items. </p><p>“Hm, right.” The driver said quietly as he gently nodded his head. </p><p>He grabbed a packet of gum and dropped it onto the counter. </p><p>“I’m gonna also need a pack of Crown Reds.” The passenger said. </p><p>“You got it.” Marco turned slightly and reached up to the rack of cigarettes behind him. </p><p>His fingers lifted a pack of Crown Reds cigarettes from the rack, and they brought it down to the counter. As he scanned the items, the driver scratched at his scruffy stubble. </p><p>“So, you two are pretty dressed up. Comin’ back from some kinda ‘black-tie event’?” Marco asked, wearing an uncomfortable smile in case the men didn’t feel like talking. </p><p>“No, we work for, uh… an, investigative agency.” The driver said. </p><p>“Oh, like the FBI?” Marco asked. </p><p>“Something like that. Our agency deals more in… unnatural occurrences.” The driver said. </p><p>He took a card from the inside of his jacket pocket and showed it to Marco. He held it between his pointer and middle fingers. It read ‘BUOPE’. </p><p>“Not everybody believes us, but… if you ever see anything strange around, give us a call.” The driver flipped the card in his fingers to its reverse side, which showed a phone number. </p><p>“Hmm. What does, uh, B.U.O.P.E. stand for?” Marco asked as he bagged the men’s items. </p><p>“The Bureau of Unnatural Occurrences and Paranormal Events.” The passenger chimed in, glancing at Marco before looking away again. </p><p>“Doesn’t acronym well, so we usually just go by the Agency.” The driver said. </p><p>He handed Marco the card as he took out his wallet. </p><p>“Your total’s $11.89.” Marco said to the driver. </p><p>The man took the money from his wallet and handed it to Marco, receiving his change back. </p><p>“If I see anything… out of place, or, strange? I’ll give you guys a call.” Marco said, picking up the card and holding it. </p><p>“Wouldn’t expect anything less.” The driver said ominously as the two men walked out of the convenience store and got in their car. </p><p>The card was matte black, and almost grainy to the touch, Marco felt. It felt rough against his fingertips. The lettering on both sides of the card was done in a golden color. Marco pocketed the card and went back to waiting for Cassandra. </p><p>As he thought about her, his phone buzzed on the counter. He picked it up. It was a text from Cassandra. </p><p>&lt; I think I’m gonna come in a bit early today, just won’t clock in til 5 &gt; </p><p>&lt; Why? If I can ask &gt; Marco replied. </p><p>He sat idly for a few minutes awaiting a response. </p><p>&lt; No reason why. Woke up and can’t go back to sleep — my body will regret this next time I go to bed. &gt; Cassandra texted back. </p><p>&lt; Well come in as early as you’d like. We can always just hang out here until you clock in. &gt; </p><p>&lt; Ok, I’ll be on my way in about an hour and a half. &gt; Cassandra replied. </p><p>&lt; That works - looking forward to seeing your car pulling up! &gt; </p><p>A few minutes passed, with no response back from Cassandra. Marco set his phone down on the table and looked around. He stood up from his seat and began to walk through the store. He stopped at several displays, straightening items that had become ajar through the course of the day. </p><p>He rearranged candy bars, bags of chips, even drinks in one of the refrigerators. He turned over his shoulder to check the clock that hooked to the archway: 2:49. Marco figured Cassandra would be showing up around 4:30. He exhaled deeply, cracked his knuckles and continued to straighten up the store’s stock. </p><p>Marco walked into the back room to retrieve more items to stock the refrigerators with. He carefully set the items in the refrigerators, back turned to the front of the store. From behind him, he heard the door “bing bong” noise as one of the glass doors opened. </p><p>“Hey, let me know if you need help finding anything.” Marco said, slightly turning his head over his right shoulder, seeing that the customer was a woman, probably in her early twenties, with sandy-blonde, shoulder length hair. </p><p>The woman looked somewhat confused, but mostly shocked. Marco only briefly saw this expression wash over her face, turning from the briefest glimpse of hopelessness to utter shock in a matter of a few seconds. </p><p>Somewhat concerned, Marco stopped stocking the refrigerators and turned fully to face the woman. </p><p>“Uh, I… Is something wrong, miss?” Marco asked, pulling his sleeves on his bright red sweatshirt back down from his elbows to his wrists. </p><p>“I… Uh, no, I…” The woman stuttered before falling into a breathy exhale. “No, it’s just been so long since I’ve had a real conversation with someone.” She said, the inside of her eyebrows rising to point towards the overhead fluorescent lighting. </p><p>“I, uh, I don’t follow. Are you alright, miss?” Marco asked, crossing his arms. </p><p>“No, not at all!” She said, her mouth quickly shifting to a bright smile. </p><p>“Um, ok.” Marco responded. </p><p>“No, no, ok, I’ve just been… Ok. Let me start over. My name’s Shelby. A few weeks ago, I-I-I got into a, a car crash, and I… and I know this is going to sound really strange, but, I… fell into a different dimension, and now I’m stuck here, and I can’t interact with anyone. No one can see me. Except for you. You’re the first person that I’ve been able to speak to, from your side.” Shelby said frantically. </p><p>“Huh. This is… Well, that’s… a lot of information to give me at once.” Marco said. “How do I know, and I’m not trying to be rude here, that you aren’t just lying to me? Or… doing some kind of dare?” </p><p>Shelby looked around. She stopped on a large bag of barbecue chips sitting on one of the shelves. </p><p>“That. Grab that bag of chips and throw it to me. I’ll give you all the proof you need.” Shelby said. </p><p>Marco stood idly for a few seconds, looking at Shelby. With a loud sigh, he broke. </p><p>“Fine. I’ll play into whatever you’re doing.” He said as he reached for the bag of chips. “But you’d better buy something for wasting my time.” He mumbled. </p><p>Grabbing the chips, he held the bag with both hands. Shelby put her hands up, almost as if she’d subconsciously readied herself to catch something being thrown at her. </p><p>Marco tossed the bag at Shelby, and it went right through her, landing behind her near the door. Marco’s eyes widened. </p><p>“Holy… shit.” He said breathily. </p><p>“Right?“ Shelby asked, putting her hands up in the air in front of her. </p><p>“Wh-wh-what… This is really weird.” Marco said, unsure of what to do. </p><p>“I’m sorry, I didn’t… I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. It’s, it’s just been so long since I’ve talked to another… real person.” Shelby said, forming a nervous smile. </p><p>Marco slowly walked back towards the counter. </p><p>“I just, I gotta sit down for a minute.” He said. </p><p>He walked around the counter and sat down, leaning forward and folding his hands on top of it. Shelby walked up to the counter. She put her hands on it and leaned towards him. </p><p>“So, you’re touching the counter? I thought you couldn’t interact with anything.” Marco asked in a confused manner. </p><p>“I can interact with some stuff. Just not everything. I can feel objects occasionally, but the next day I can’t. Like I said, I’m in a different… Area of existence.” </p><p>Marco leaned back in his chair, and it squeaked as he did so. He crossed his arms. </p><p>“So… What exactly do you think caused… this?” Marco asked. </p><p>“I don’t know. I was in a car crash, and when I woke up, I wasn’t… real, anymore.” Shelby said, standing back up from leaning on the counter. </p><p>“That’s, that’s… This doesn’t feel… real. I mean, how is this real? It feels like a dream.” Marco said, still dumbfounded. </p><p>“It’s real enough to me.” Shelby said, putting her hands in her jean pockets. </p><p>“Well… this has certainly been a reassuring experience. Knowing I’m not entirely gone.” Shelby said with a smile. </p><p>“I suppose so.” Marco replied. </p><p>Shelby sighed quietly before walking to the store’s entrance. “See you later.” She said as she pushed open the door and walked out into the darkness. </p><p>Marco leaned back, putting his hands on top of his head. He stared at the door for a few seconds, looking out into the night just outside. A few hours passed, with no more customers. He checked his phone as the sun was beginning to come up. He looked outside quietly. He glanced back to his phone. It read 5:00 AM. Just as he read it, he heard a car pull up outside. </p><p>It was Cassandra. She stepped out of her red sedan. She walked up to the door, holding her phone in her hand and pushed it open. She stepped inside. The door spoke up with a gentle ding as it closed. </p><p>“Hey.” Cassandra said with a smile. </p><p>“Hi.” Marco replied. </p><p>Cassandra walked towards the door that lead to the back office and opened it with a key she pulled from her handbag and unlocked the door. She pushed it open and stepped inside. A few seconds later, she stepped out with an office chair. </p><p>She walked over to Marco. The feet of the chair warbled against the store’s linoleum floor as Marco turned his focus to Cassandra. </p><p>“So, why’d you want to come in early today?” He asked, leaning back in his chair and interlocking his fingers. </p><p>“Like I said, I woke up early, and I didn’t feel like going back to sleep, so I figured I’d come in early and hang out with you. Not like I’ve got anything else going on anyway.” Cassandra said, twiddling her thumbs as she held her bag in her lap. </p><p>“Hmm.” Marco said quietly. </p><p>The two sat in silence for a few seconds, unsure of where to take the conversation next. </p><p>“So, anything exciting happen during your shift?” Cassandra asked, shifting her focus from the white floor tiles to Marco. </p><p>Marco made a ‘pfft’ noise with his mouth. “It’d be a shorter list to tell you the boring things.” </p><p>Cassandra suddenly became more attentive. “How so?” </p><p>“Well, for starters, some guys came in around midnight, and we talked about aliens, which reminds me I’ve got a video to show you later, then these two other guys came in dressed in really nice suits, gave me this business card—“ Marco paused to pull the BUOPE card from his jean pocket. </p><p>He handed it to Cassandra and she flicked it around between her thin fingers, looking at it. </p><p>“They told me to call ‘em if anything weird happened. Then, this chick came in, seemingly normal, turns out she was actually trapped in some kind of ghost dimension. I know how crazy this all sounds, but I’m sure the security cameras caught it all. I’ll have to show you later.” Marco finished. </p><p>Cassandra had a big smile on her face. “Sounds like you had quite a night.” </p><p>“Oh yeah. Yeah… it was a thrill.” Marco said as his grin slowly faded away. </p><p>“So, uh, Cassandra…” Marco started, moving his hand to scratch his face, beneath his left eye. “We’ve, uh, been working together for a bit now.” </p><p>“Mmm-hmm.” Cassandra replied. </p><p>“Would you, maybe, and it’s fine if you don’t, I’ll totally understand,” Marco continued as he closed his eyes before turning and shaking his head very subtly, “Want to… get something to drink sometime? Coffee, a beer, your choice?” </p><p>“I…” Cassandra exhaled quietly. “You know what? I’d like that. Very much.” </p><p>“Great. Excellent.” Marco said as he leaned back in his chair, wearing an content look on his face. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Frequency - A Short Story</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Tune in for tales of the odd.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Hello there, ladies and gentlemen, welcome back to another quiet night here on the Frequency. As always, to all of our new viewers, it’s nice to meet you. I’m so glad you found me.” The Voice said. </p><p>“As we descend deeper into the night, listeners, we’ll be sailing smoothly on a mix of classic hits and modern tastes, so there won’t be any stopping the excitement going on here.” The Voice said softly. </p><p>“First up, we’ll be taking it back a little bit with Piano Man. Enjoy, everybody.” The Voice said. </p><p>The Voice hit play on Piano Man and leaned back in his black leather chair. He sighed as he rubbed his eyes. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep taking on the night shift. It was killing him, these long nights, and he worked a regular job. </p><p>The job he worked during the day paid him barely enough to get by with a run-down apartment, and even at that, his performance was suffering from all the nights in the station. He was exhausted and on the cusp of losing his job. </p><p>Running the station didn’t pay much. It was owned by a strange, wealthy old man, who rarely dropped by to check on the place, and sent a paycheck to the man’s apartment every other week with no return address. </p><p>Of course, the paycheck varied in amount, never good. Twelve, five, thirty-seven for Christmas once. The Voice thought the older guy was weird, sure, but he couldn’t afford to lose either job. </p><p>And the station meant so much to him, despite making next to no money off it. It was special, and if he left, the peculiar people that tuned in, so deep into the night, would be utterly disappointed. </p><p>The station would fall apart. No one around to run it, it would just go quiet. A relic of a failure. A strange reminder of a strange past. </p><p>Perhaps the most intriguing piece of the station were the call-ins. Strange people, disturbed people, people claiming an eccentric assortment of stories to be true. </p><p>A girl from beyond the grave, vanished through a car accident. A man living in the mind, able to see into people’s dreams. A harbor containing an ancient evil, perhaps older than existence itself. Numerous accounts of a being, able to take the form of anything it desired. </p><p>The callers were strange. The stories were absurd, fantastical, nothing but delusional creations of the mind generated to distract these oddballs from their horrendously overpriced collection of experiences and memories called life. </p><p>The Voice looked at the large clock that sat stationary, hooked to the wall. He was wasting his life. A life set solely on repeat. Day in, day out. Every day, every night, every second, every minute, every hour. All the time. </p><p>He lived his life in a loop. Doomed to the same monotonous schedule every single waking second of his life. Nothing interesting ever happened. Claims of the paranormal and the incredulous swirling around him like a tornado that destroys everything in its path except the shop that sells fragile glass dolls. </p><p>It never touched him. </p><p>It supposedly was happening to everyone. Every person either had strange abilities, a demon or ghost haunting them, or knowledge of some otherworldly, heart-stopping, world-view-altering being that changed all the things you thought you knew. </p><p>The Voice never saw any of it. Maybe it was because he was in the station all night, and at work all day. Maybe it was because none of this was true. Maybe it was because he was just… not one of the fortunate ones. </p><p>The only one without an experience. The only one without a nightmare to recount. The only one without a belief. The only one leading a normal life. </p><p>The Voice leaned forward in his chair as Billy Joel serenaded his listeners. Hands on his kneecaps, the Voice sighed, before picking up his phone from the table he sat at. As he slid the phone into his hand, the screen came to life, displaying the time on it. 11:33 PM. </p><p>His eyes stung and ached from days without sleep. He dropped the phone down onto the desk, and brought his hand to rub his eye. </p><p>After a few seconds of holding his hand on his face, he lowered it, pulling it down over his features. He exhaled lightly, glancing to a flashing red light placed atop his desk. Someone was calling into the station. His eyes shot to Piano Man. The song was coming to a close, so the Voice turned back to the desk and let the song fade out of his ears and mind. </p><p>As a silence fell over the room, the man’s hand glided over the desk towards the light. He switched the equipment over from the song audio to the call-in audio. </p><p>As the audio switched with a crisp click, the noise of breathing echoed through the line. </p><p>“Hey there, welcome to the Frequency, you’re on the air. What have you been up to tonight Caller?” The Voice asked, leaning onto his desk. </p><p>“Is this, the, the Frequency?” The Caller responded. </p><p>His voice was strained, worn thin, and he spoke quietly. The Voice’s eyes were transported to the vibrantly-colored orange clock that hung on the wall above the scratched-up wooden door. 11:36 PM. </p><p>“It most certainly is. I take it you’re a first-time caller?” The Voice asked. </p><p>A deep exhale came through the line. </p><p>“Yes. I… I am. But I think maybe my dad wasn’t.” The Caller said, speaking up. </p><p>“Your father? Who might that be?” The Voice questioned. </p><p>“He passed away a few days ago. Funeral ended a few hours ago.” The Caller replied. </p><p>“Well, that’s certainly sad. Sorry for your loss.” The Voice replied. </p><p>“Yeah. It’s been tough. My sister and I were up in his attic, and we were looking through some of his old stuff. I found what I now know is your… station’s number written on a bunch of papers up there. Along with what’s apparently the station’s name.” The Caller said. </p><p>“Hm. Well, what was your father’s name?” The Voice asked. </p><p>“His name’s— was George.” </p><p>“George? George… Hold on a second.” The Voice said through the line. </p><p>The Voice turned to a small metal cabinet that sat next to his desk. A long while back, near when the Voice begin working for the Frequency, he decided writing down the names of the callers, if they gave them, would be something to help pass the time. </p><p>After all, there was only so much time that sitting on your phone or sketching whatever strands of thought danced through your mind could do to help pass the time during songs. </p><p>The Voice flicked through his papers for a few seconds as the line sat quiet. </p><p>“You still there?” The Voice asked through the phone, returning to his desk. </p><p>“Yeah.” The Caller answered. </p><p>“I just looked through my record of callers, and there was a George that called in a few months ago.” The Voice said, scratching the mahogany desk beneath his audio equipment with his fingernails. </p><p>“Ok. Great. Thank you.” The Caller responded. </p><p>“You’re welcome… and, uh, I’m…” The Voice sighed briefly. “I’m sorry about your dad.” </p><p>“Thanks.” The Caller said quietly as he hung up. </p><p>The Voice sat in his chair, quietly, with his hands folded on his desk. No music had been queued after Piano Man. Almost snapping back to reality, the Voice blinked a few times before hastily jumping to the music selection to find something to fill the silence. </p><p>He jumped to the first song he could find, Material Girl by Madonna. </p><p>“I, uh, I guess it’s a Madonna night now. Sorry about my hesitation, folks.” The Voice said as he faded into the background of the boisterous, dreamy pop-tones of Material Girl. </p><p>The Voice stood up from his chair for a few moments to stretch his legs. He wiped his hands on his black jeans. He walked over to the mini-fridge he kept at the opposite side of the station and took a can of soda from it. </p><p>He stared at the vibrant blue can for a few seconds, before his hand jumped to the top of it to pop the tab up. The Voice wasn’t quite sure why the conversation with the Caller had shaken him so much. All he ever heard was tales of the odd. </p><p>It was a stark reminder of the astonishingly ordinary world that resided right outside of the green door that stood idly at the Voice’s left. He took a long, aggressive slurp of soda and returned to his seat as Material Girl continued to echo through the dark California night. </p><p>The Voice glanced at the bright orange clock once again. A few minutes after midnight. The Voice rubbed his darkened eyes, which stung as he pulled his hands away. He’d been up for a few nights straight now, unable to sleep. As Material Girl began to wind down, he looked over to the cot he kept in the radio station. </p><p>All he wanted to do was fall onto it and close his eyes, but he knew he couldn’t, not at least for another hour, when the station went quiet for the day. He leaned back in his chair, rolling his neck and closing his eyes. </p><p>The Voice put his hand on the back of his neck, massaging the pain he’d started to feel in the last couple of weeks. He sat there with his eyes closed for a few seconds, resting as Material Girl ended. </p><p>He opened his eyes and returned to his desk, where he readied the next song. George Michael’s Careless Whisper. He popped the song on and swiveled back away from his station. </p><p>As the Voice sat in his swivel chair in the middle of the station, and George Michael’s soothing voice echoed through all the tuned in radios, he realized his lips had been drying out. Suddenly he was strangely uncomfortable. His bright orange and blue and green Hawaiian shirt began to feel itchy. </p><p>The Voice licked his lips. He jerked his head towards the green door as he heard a knock pounding against it. He’d locked it earlier, so whoever it was couldn’t get in, but that didn’t make him any less unnerved. </p><p>He sat in silence, staring at the door for a few seconds, his eyes wider than they’d ever been. His dark brown hair had fallen down into his vision. His fingertips and palm grazed his forehead as he moved the strands of hair back into place. The knocking came again. Almost louder this time, the Voice thought? </p><p>It couldn’t have been. It wasn’t, but to the Voice it sounded so much louder. Almost like there was an intent to it. Like the first knock was to determine if anyone was home, and the second, to establish itself as the situation’s aggressor. </p><p>Slowly, almost as if without thinking, the Voice straightened out his Hawaiian shirt, collected himself and began to move across the floor as quietly as possible, towards his desk. He reached it, as the knock now entered its fourth occurrence. </p><p>It wasn’t aggressive. It was angry. Furious. The fourth knock was the most threatening. This was no longer about getting the Voice to come out. It was about getting in. </p><p>Without fully breaking eye contact with the door, still just as slow, the Voice turned his body slightly to face the desk. He quickly tapped a button on the song board before reaching for a drawer on the desk. He pulled it open slowly so the wood wouldn’t grind against itself, and pulled a rather large handgun from it. </p><p>He didn’t try to close the drawer. The Voice turned towards the door, arms resting on the arms of the swivel chair he sat in, handgun pointed at the door. Whoever, or whatever, this was? It wasn’t getting past the doorframe. At least not without being pumped full of bullets. </p><p>The Voice’s saliva went down with a hard swallow. The sixth knock began. Any harder and it might sound less like knocking and more like trying to rip a door out of its hinges. Quickly, because he didn’t want to be vulnerable for long, the Voice checked the magazine of the handgun. Still full. </p><p>He was never here without it. He wouldn’t be this far out of San Francisco without a firearm. He kept a shotgun in the trunk of his car, but for obvious reasons, couldn’t go out to get it now. </p><p>The Voice didn’t move. He sat completely still. Not making a sound, not taking his attention away from the dingy lime green door in front of him.  As the seventh knock began, almost sounding like the intent now was to punch a hole right through the door itself, it suddenly stopped. Three pounds against the door, then abrupt silence. </p><p>It was gone almost as fast as it had started. The Voice’s eyes were wider than they’d been a few minutes prior. When the knocking was there, when it was consistent, the Voice knew exactly where… whatever it was, was. But without the telltale sign of its location? He was defenseless. Despite having his pointer finger wrapped around the thin, chilled trigger of a handgun, he somehow felt more vulnerable. </p><p>As he sat in the maddening quiet, listening as close as he could for any noises outside, his head began to hurt. Not any kind of hurt. An abnormal aching echoing back and forth through his skull, rippling out through his bones. The last time he’d felt like this, he was a child. Seemed like eons ago now. </p><p>The insides of the Voice’s eyebrows turned towards the ceiling. He was overcome with a terrifying sense of dread. A kind of dread he hadn’t felt since he’d had that pain he’d had as a child.  </p><p>Tears began to swell at the corners of his eyes. He was trapped. Thoughts and fractured images flashed through his mind. His mother. Him as a child, sick in bed. The looming sense of something in the edge of the tree line. Big. No. Tall.  There was an important distinction. Something angry. Jagged ends. Sharp points. </p><p>He was sick like this for a week or so as a child. A type of sickness he hadn’t felt before, or since. His mother took him to the doctor, but they couldn’t find anything. They said it might’ve been psychological. A mental illness? No. Certainly not. Right? </p><p>It went away after a week. Seven days exactly. Like the heaviest feeling of guilt was ripped from his shoulders. </p><p>That feeling was back. It had morphed into far different. Something drastically altered from whatever it had been when they had met all those years ago. </p><p>The Voice’s eyes burned, stung. His sleeping pattern was catching up to him. He couldn’t fall asleep now. Not when this… thing, was so close to him again after years of absence. When his mother died years back, he wasn’t sure what to feel. His last connection to his old life was severed. His father had gone many years earlier. He fell, but the ice wasn’t there to catch him. He sunk right down into the auburn depths. </p><p>His never missed his father after they’d found him in pieces. Glass in hand and steel in mind. The metal climbing towards the sky above. That note he’d written, the Voice read. A disappointment to the man. But that’s not something that needs further elaboration, does it? Maybe it did, the Voice reasoned. </p><p>After all, it wasn’t something he’d thought long or deeply about. The way those letters on the back hauled his father out. Zipped into black, and out the door into white. Those days were a blur. They’ve faded so much, yet they’re still so deeply burned into his mind. </p><p>The Voice blinked several times, attempting to shake the thoughts out of his mind. A quiet scratching appeared against the outside of the wall behind him. He sat completely still. Completely silent. He finally knew where it was. Without thinking, he tightened his grip around his handgun. He reached over his right arm and pressed a button on the board on the desk, breaking contact with the door for only a few seconds. </p><p>Feeling a sudden wave of courage wash over him, the Voice stood up from his swivel chair, still aiming his handgun at the door. He turned slightly and grabbed his car keys from the desk. His chest throbbed in time with his heartbeat. His skin felt hot. Every part of his body burned in discomfort. He’d be stepping out into deep night. Just him and it, the only things around for miles. </p><p>Exhaling quick, short breaths, the Voice stepped up to the door. He could still hear the scratching on the wall behind him, facing down the hill. Almost without thought, he clicked off the light switch. The station was pitch black. Readying the key to unlock his car between his fingers, he lowered his hand to the doorknob. He clicked the lock, then wrapped his long fingers around it. </p><p>As the Voice popped the door out of its place, he heard the faint scratching behind him stop. He took a quiet, deep breath. In a rush, he yanked the door open. Given his haste, he might’ve ripped the already fraile door off its hinges, but he made sure to open just far enough for him to get out. He quickly slammed it behind him, still aware of the fact that he was an employee of this station, and no matter how unofficial that may have been, he still had to lock up every night. </p><p>This night was no exception. </p><p>He quickly swapped to the door key in his fingers and popped it in the lock. It clicked and he pulled the key out. He still couldn’t hear the scratching. As he swapped keys in his fingers, the Voice glanced to the large patch of dense shrubs and trees that rested right next to the station. </p><p>Illuminated by only the blue of the night sky, nothing was there. Nothing had come roaring around the corner, eager to rip him apart. Just dead silence. Something felt off. Just a looming feeling. Something aching deep inside of his mind, connected in the most primal of ways to the Voice. </p><p>Within the next second, the Voice has turned and was sprinting for his car, which sat about twenty yards from the station. He didn’t like parking so far away, but it was as close as he could get without having to drive through fencing. </p><p>His heart was climbing up to his throat. The frigid air washed over him, as his warmth from being inside faded away into the silence surrounding him. He gripped the handgun tighter than he had been before as he rushed towards his car. He couldn’t pinpoint it, nor did he truly want to, but something deep inside of him was yelling out, screaming at him to keep running. To not look back. </p><p>Maybe it wasn’t some primal beast, flushed from the depths of the universe, which crawled its way through the urban forest of San Francisco all the way up to the Voice’s radio station. It could’ve been a dog. Some bored teenagers playing some kind of sick joke on a frayed mind. He wanted to know. He had to know. He needed to know. </p><p>A few yards from his car, the thought danced through his mind, lighting up the space as dark as the night that engulfed him, that when his key jumped into that lock, and his hand ripped the door open, once he was safely inside his vehicle, he’d stop and observe whatever was tormenting him. Of course he would. He couldn’t leave without a conclusion. </p><p>His final few steps to his car came, and the sense that something was hot on his trail lifted. He stopped at his door, key in the lock, and looked back. Nothing. Nothing but empty space between him and the station. Nothing but him and the night. </p><p>This couldn’t have been it, could it? His downtrodden, sleep-deprived mind grasping for stimulus where there simply wasn’t any? It all felt so real. It was real. It couldn’t have been an illusion. He heard the scratching. The pounding on the door. </p><p>The Voice stood motionless in the dark, cool night, staring ahead at the station and the distance between them. He heard a twig snap from the patch of trees next to them. He shot the arm holding the gun up to aim at the trees. </p><p>He stood silent and still. Something was there. It was back. The feeling of dread had returned. It was different from the sense of danger he’d felt on the run from the station to his car. It was similar to what he felt so many years ago. But it was more potent. It was here with him. It was watching him. </p><p>As this sense of dread overwhelmed his mind and paralyzed his body, something dark moved in the brush in front of his vision. Antlers stuck from the brush. His mind almost settled when he saw this. Just a deer. His grip around the trigger loosened by the slightest bit. </p><p>The antlers were motionless. Like the deer had been frozen in place. This unsettled him even more. Despite his mind and body screaming out at him to get in the car and never come back here, he had to know. He’d lost this feeling so long ago, and what it might’ve been haunted him in occasional echoes through his mind over the decades. </p><p>He tightened his finger over the trigger, still maintaining his aim. He was terrified, but he was no longer afraid of this feeling. The antlers began to move. They rose, foot after foot. The Voice’s eyes widened. A chill rippled over his body, and the hair on his neck stood up. </p><p>This was what had haunted him over that week as a child. The feeling of dread was stronger and more potent than it had ever been. He could feel his muscles tightening. He pulled the trigger, firing off one shot in the night. The blazing orange burst lit up the dark blue around him as if the sun itself had come out. </p><p>The creature ducked back down into the bushes and continued to watch him as he dove into his car. He jammed the key into the ignition and the car wheezed to life. He turned the lights on and nearly killed his transmission shoving the car into reverse and whipping it around to escape. </p><p>He felt if he stuck around any longer, that creature would come out of the trees after him. He pushed the car into drive and sped down the winding hill towards the bright lights of the city. </p><p>He turned the radio on to calm down. He could relax. It was over, he’d escaped. A sense of relief washed over him. His breathing returned to normal and the looming sense of dread slowly dissolved. </p><p>All he could do now was hope whatever he felt there didn’t come back anytime soon. </p>
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